Limelights
by Patchwork Poltergeist
Summary: Bask in your limelight, but be careful not to burn. oneshot


_Living in the limelight  
The universal dream  
For those who wish to seem  
Those who wish to be  
Must put aside the alienation  
Get on with the fascination  
The real relation  
The underlying theme_

- Rush; Limelight

I remember floodlights.

I remember how above both stage and crowd, above even the music; that winding, pulsing, _glorious_ music all those bulbs washed across the stage shining like multicolored stars in the dank of The Holy Diver. The long beams of greens and blues reflecting on the cheep wooden stage and the flashing spotlight overhead.

I recall the rumbling pulse of Simon's electric-blue bass and the primordial scream of Eddie's battle scarred Gibson Firebird, ten years old and the axe still singing like an angel. I remember the ebb and flow of the mob as they popped, crashed, and jostled around me. There was the cacophony of screaming fans in the background and I recall how the individual voices always come together as one, a voice that only existed for the band.

Anyone who was _anyone_ was at the Holy Diver that night; you'd have to be either crazy or stupid to have missed it. Everyone was there, and I mean everyone. I mean, even besides the usual crowd of punks, metalheads, and other rock-endowed miscreants, even the preppy airheads and the dweebs were there. There were even a couple of way older guys, like in their thirties or something. Nobody would ever pass up a chance for a Cinders performance, especially a _free_ Cinder performance. Nobody. There wouldn't be another show like this for long time.

The Diver was our kingdom and he, Adobe Divine, our king.

Adobe Divine was a stage name, naturally.

I mean, what weirdo names their kid _Adobe_?

He'd never admit it, though. When Adobe lied, he stuck to his story like gum stuck to a desk; he was an even better liar than singer, a fact I'd come to learn quite well. He'd grown so used to his pseudonym, I don't think anyone remembered what his actual name was, not even Adobe.

To tell the truth, he really wasn't that good looking a guy offstage. Not exactly _bad_ looking or anything, just not very good looking, you know? Average. You'd never pick him out in a crowd if you were looking for him.

On stage, though, it was a different story. Somehow, when those lights blazed and the music swirled around, what was average turned extraordinary. He looked more spry than scrawny, more regal than ratty, and his usual smooth, boring voice, became… it's hard to describe, really. Think about the best, the absolute best voce you're even heard in your miserable life, then multiply it ten times and you'd still just have a hint of how good it was.

His voice never really changed when it was on stage, though. It still sounded like the same old Adobe voice, but when he sang, it had this, this radical _power_ to it. Yeah. Yeah, that's totally it.

Power was what he had in his voice.

Some would say it was just because that was his singing voice, but people who say that aren't the people who hung around when the Cinders rehearsed in their dinky little studio on Centerville Boulevard. His singing voice was no more spectacular than his speaking voice. Even with Simon and Eddie backing him up with the instrumentals in the background, it still sounded like Adobe's usual dull tenor tones.

If you ask me, I'd say it came from the crowd. After all, a singer's only good if the public says they are, it's the crowd that spreads the word, it's the crowd that feeds them (literally), but more importantly it's the crowd who loves them.

And man, did those crowds ever love Adobe.

For a moment, I loved him again, too. It's really easy to do that with Adobe, he's a real charmer. It's what he does.

For a second, I was just as mesmerized as the rest of the audience.

I almost forgot for a moment that Adobe Divine was going to bite the dust before the set ended.

It didn't take too long to come back to my senses and realize that he wasn't singing on my behalf any more and that endearing white, wild grin was only for the cameras. He still centered all his attention, all his devotion to the crowd just as much, if not more, than he had in the past, but it was no longer because I was in it.

This was not the same Adobe that wrote the lyrics to "Kiss Me, Kismet" as I sat cross-legged beside him, helping with his rhyme schemes. This wasn't the patient coach who taught me the chords of a guitar and then described how killer a player I'd someday be when I got discouraged. It wasn't the troubled artist I had comforted in the early morning hours after nobody came to the gig. This Adobe was not the one I watched sleep in the back of a rusty old Buick because he'd nowhere else to sleep that night.

And this _certainly_ was not the Adobe who promised to give me the world because my existence had made it worth living in.

On the contrary, this Adobe was the man who held my hand as he promised to ring on the hour every night of the tour and told of the millions of postcards and souvenirs he'd jam my mailbox with from all the cities, towns, and back alleys Cinder played in.

This was the man to whom I owed eye bags from nights spent by the phone, digging my nails into the couch as minutes turned to hours and double-checking to see if my phone service was still working, if I didn't accidentally give him the wrong number. I almost ripped the plug from its socket when it finally rung two days later, only to hear some biddy on the line selling newspaper subscriptions.

He was the reason I scraped the letterbox clean every morning for four weeks looking for nonexistent letters of love and insisted the mailman double, no, triple, check the sack, because there _must_ have been something he missed.

He was the Adobe who I forgave despite all of that, and who's arrival I still prepared for hours in advance, and brought his favorite albums in tow to listen to later as he told me everything he couldn't on the phone or in writing. After all, I had assumed he must have had a good reason.

As it turned out, he actually had _several_ good reasons, according to the host of perfumes on his bomber jacket and the parallel splotches of lipstick he hadn't yet washed out.

The Adobe on stage was the phony who exposed himself as he hugged and said, "Aw, baby, you have no idea how much I missed you, Amber."

I liked to think of myself as a reasonable person at the time. Still do, actually. I'm not the type to jump to conclusions at the drop of a drumstick, but come _on_. There's reasonable, there's understanding, there's forgiveness, and then there's just stupidity. I was never too crazy about being stupid, myself. I knew evidence when I saw it.

If my _complete_ neglect and the strange perfumes and makeup on his person weren't complete proof, then his actually forgetting my name certainly was. I'd bet my guitar stings this Amber person was the one who'd left the scent on his jacket.

Simon and Eddie swore up, down, left, right, and sideways that he didn't get my name wrong on purpose, that it was just a simple mistake, that he was just tired from the ride home.

Well, of course, he didn't do it on purpose, that was the _point_. Nobody _wants_ to be caught in their lie. I'd noticed a long time ago that Adobe was a good liar, but and even the experts trip up. A tired man's tongue always loosens, no matter how deceptive it is.

They told me that Eddie was borrowing the bomber jacket for most of the tour because he won a bet, that Adobe was only wearing it on the last two nights of the tour. They reminded me how much Eddie loves to croon at the ladies, how easy it would have been for those ladies to leave their marks on the bomber he happened to be borrowing.

A likely story. Everyone know that jacket was Adobe's good luck charm. He never let anyone touch the leather, much less borrow it, bet or no bet.

I really don't know why I even bothered with those two in the first place; it was just like them to cover their front man's tracks as they always did. The boys have to stick together, dudes before dames, and junk. Their word was worth about as much as a melted vinyl.

So.

That was how it was gonna be.

I suppose Ed and Simon might have had a point. Maybe I was being a little hard on poor ol' Adobe. Everyone forgets the little things once in a while, the little people that no longer matter to them. Adobe had been _so_ busy lately with his new airheaded friend on the road, soaking up his precious limelight, and schmoozing in the Hills, how could he ever have managed to recall something as insignificant as little me.

That was just fine. If Adobe had a sudden dose of forgetfulness, all he needed was something unforgettable.

All I had to do was make him remember.

It was a good think that Adobe had forgotten me, in retrospect. Since he had forgotten me, he couldn't have recalled anything about me to arouse his suspicion. He wouldn't have realized how weird it was that I'd show up to his show when I was obvious so annoyed with him. If anything, my presence at the Holy Diver would have fueled his ego, if he managed to catch sight of me at all.

He wouldn't have remembered how my talent expanded past music into a bit of electronics, namely concerning that of stage lights and sound systems.

He'd be too busy hot-dogging for the ladies to remember just how old and decrepit the Diver was. He wouldn't know how long it had been since it had been renovated, how long it had been properly inspected, how painfully dry the building was. How fast it would burn like tinder with only a tiny flame.

Or maybe, instead of a flame, a spark.

Perhaps a spark from, oh, I don't know?

Stagelights, maybe?

He only noticed something was wrong when Simon shouted at the sight of smoke.

I caught is wide-eyed stare in my direction as I watched from the back wall. His gaze moved from me, to the wiring, to the stage, already catching ablaze, then back to me again as he burned in his precious limelight.

I smiled at him.

"Hey, babe.

Remember me now?"


End file.
